


Remarkably Unsuccessful

by chains_archivist



Category: Plunkett and Macleane (1999)
Genre: Boys in Chains, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chains_archivist/pseuds/chains_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Macleane renews his friendship with Rochester and establishes his friendship with Plunkett, we learn the events in his life that have led up to this moment. Warnings: This fiction contains some definite spoilers for the film. Story takes place on the fringe of the film's narrative, beginning with the scene in which Rochester appears for the first time.</p><p>By Christine Belmont</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cockfight

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dusk, the archivist: this work was originally archived at [Boys in Chains](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Boys_in_Chains), which opened in 2000 as a multifandom archive for both fiction and art, but then sadly went offline in 2005. To bring the archive back, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in December 2014. Open Doors [posted an announcement](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/1832) and e-mailed all creators about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this [author/artist], please [contact the Open Doors committee](http://transformativeworks.org/contact/open%20doors).

It had been a long while since James Macleane had seen Rochester and indeed, it felt even longer than it was. The last time they had met had been under less than favourable circumstances (in fact, the first time they had ever met had been under unfavourable circumstances - this was the nature of their relationship) or at least this was the opinion of Macleane. In truth, James Macleane did not want to think about Rochester's feelings about the relationship. James did not want to think about Rochester at all. Rochester had become yet another part of his life to hide beneath layers of drugs, alcohol, fucking and gambling.

Times had changed, however, and it seemed now that Rochester could be of use to James. As Plunkett kept so emphatically asserting, information was the currency in which they were interested. If one were to rob the rich, one needed to know which of the rich were rich (for on a typical day it could easily be asserted that approximately 80% of the wealthy were broke and in debt), which of the rich to rob, and when the opportune times to rob them would be.

Rochester was one of them. One of the privileged, the elite of British society. He knew the right people and had access to the right events. Furthermore, he was a man that could be relied on to ask no questions and instead accept things upon face value. He was a man who could be relied upon to feel enough self-interest, at the expense of any curiosity about the inconsistencies in James' present position. Friends like this, with no interest in your life, or concern for your welfare, could be valuable at times when such interest would become inconvenient.

Thus it came to be that James 'accidentally', by 'strange coincidence', stumbled upon Rochester at the cockfight that late afternoon. It amused James somewhat to observe Rochester's shock at his appearance. It was well-disguised shock, that to a stranger would have perhaps gone unnoticed. But, to one who had been intimate with him it was obvious.

"Well hello, you're looking rather dashing." There was a definite pause then, slight yet definite, as Rochester looked him up and down, taking in his appearance. "Last I heard you were in the vagrant cage... again."

"Vicious rumours." James smiled. "I have rooms at the Athena."

Rochester just gave him a glance, a glance that said 'but there is often much truth in gossip and rumour'. "Really?"

Rochester assessed James' form with even less discretion than he had moments earlier. His assessment was positive. "I must come up and see you sometime."

Although James had no inclination towards any such meeting, a little ambiguity was necessary in such a situation, straight out refusal would be lacking in diplomacy. Rochester was, after all, a valuable friend and contact. "Still swinging both ways, Rochester?"

"Jamie. I swing every way." His attention soon left James, however, and settled upon Plunkett. "And who is this delightful piece of rough?"

"My man." God, those words felt good, although Macleane doubted that Plunkett would approve of being referred to in such terms.

Rochester's attention was now completely focused upon Plunkett. Macleane was unsure if he felt relief or annoyance. "Don't you just love a juicy cock fight?" Rochester asked Plunkett in typically suggestive tones.

Plunkett responded by laughing, not an aristocratic titter either, but a riotous laugh. Macleane thought irritably that Plunkett could afford such laughter. He had not the history with Rochester; he could afford to see the sexual insinuations as amusing.  They cut far too deeply into James' bones, however, to allow him to laugh them off with such ease.

The first time James had seen Rochester had been many weeks before he was to actually meet him. It was cold and he was tired with nowhere to go. The church was said to offer a limited respite to those in a situation such as himself, but James was not surprised when he was turned away. He had experienced the charity of the church previously and had always found it lacking.

He had settled for the doorway of a business that had closed its doors long ago. It offered a little refuge from the rain and some protection from the wind and his coat though worn was better than that of many of his contemporaries. So he had crouched there and attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as was humanly possible. This was frighteningly easy for the homeless to do on the streets of London. They blurred with the surroundings somewhat, a fixture that would be no more noticed than the step he rested upon.

He had managed a state that resembled sleep when it happened. A huge wave of something that had once been water and now was not clean enough to be considered mud hit him. He jumped, startled, and looked to the direction in which it came.

A beautiful white coach was the perpetrator; it had swung too quickly around the corner and unsettled a puddle near where he rested. But it was what was within that coach that intrigued Macleane more. It was a young man, a gentleman or perhaps aristocrat of about his own age. He was richly dressed in purples and reds with a flamboyance that James knew his father would disapprove of. His face was painted in similar wild colours and his fingers adorned with a wealth of accessories. This was what James had come to London in search of. This was the decadence and opulence that he had dreamt of since he had been a child. James suspected he was in love. Not with this young man, but with his life. The man was Rochester. But James did not know this yet.

It would be a few weeks later that James would meet Rochester. In the few weeks his condition had deteriorated further. He was ill and injured. A client had beaten him a few days prior and he had been left with bruises and cuts and a possible break that he had neither money nor will to tend to. His current condition had not seemed to slow his popularity; rather it had increased it with a certain type of customer who would pay for the privilege of hurting him more. At least they did pay, James thought. However the money did not go far past the expense of keeping himself intoxicated.

The white coach had stopped in front of him and the several other young men he shared this strip of back road with. It had taken Macleane a few moments to recognise that Rochester was speaking to him.

"Are you simple boy?" Rochester had demanded, then asked no one in particular, "Is he deaf? Can't he hear me?"

Another man, whose name had long left James' memory, smiled. "'e may be, sir. P'haps I could help you?"

"I can't see how." Rochester was sharp.

As Macleane approached the coach that it occurred to him who this was. "I can assure you, sir, I am neither simple nor deaf," he said, with as much dignity as a young man in his position could muster.

Rochester looked him up and down. "Frankly, boy, it would not concern me in the least if you were." The door to the coach was opened. "Get in. But sit on the floor, you're filthy."

And so James Macleane, drunk, drug addict, prostitute, and clergyman's son, met Lord Rochester. This moment should be remembered, dear readers, as it was the genesis of a beautiful (and valuable) friendship.

James had not expected to return to Rochester's quarters with him. This was not protocol. However he would soon learn that Rochester was so elevated within society that he had no need for protocol.

As James was led through the great hall and up the stairs of the grand London residence, he noted the lack of surprise on the servants' faces in regard to his presence there. It would seem that young men plying their trade were as common within Rochester's home as they were upon the streets of London.

"Take him upstairs," Rochester had said as they passed a manservant in the hall. It took only these words for the manservant to fulfil what was obviously an established protocol within the house.

It was not to a bedroom that he was led but to a bathroom in which a huge tub was already being filled with warm water and scented liquid. This was an experience that James had never encountered before. A bath itself was a rarity, the expense in time and labour to prepare such a thing was costly enough, but a warm bath was unheard of. He waited for the servant to leave him. Instead the man turned and locked the door with them both inside the room.

"Get in," was all the servant said. James, who had played the game long enough to remove feelings of modesty, complied readily enough. As the liquid washed over his cuts and bruises, moments of pain swept through him. But the warmth of the bath and the pleasure of being clean mitigated any discomfort.

The servant began to scrub him roughly, over his back and arms, with little consideration for his injuries. He did not complain, however; his need to be clean overwhelmed any pain. The harsh brush worked its away around his legs but stopped before his ribs.

"You're badly bruised," the man said. His tone was neither kind nor sympathetic, yet perhaps it held a little pity. "And swollen. Your ribs could be broken."

"Yes." James agreed.

"Can you breathe properly?"

"Not too well."

The man passed him a cloth. "Use this, the brush won't help that any. Then get out."

Left in an empty bedroom, James pulled the cover from the bed and wrapped it around him. It did not feel as it looked. On the bed it had appeared grand and luxurious, on his skin the fabric felt stiff and hard. The embroidery scratched at his bruises and the heavy material weighed against his broken bones.

He was left like this for quite some time, so long in fact that he thought he had been forgotten. Somewhere between thoughts of where his own clothes had been left and just how uncomfortable he presently felt, somehow he fell asleep.

He awoke to the sensation of hands pulling the cover away from his body. The nails were long and sharp and scratched at him. Rochester's figure loomed above him. There was a smile on the other man's face. It was a smile however that was not offered to James, it was a smile that was owned entirely by the wearer. James Macleane had seen such smiles often, yet they never failed to disconcert him.

James leaned closer to the other man and began to open his shirt.

Rochester's hands stopped him. "Not there, darling."

James moved his hands downward to the other man's trousers and began to work at the removal of this item of clothing instead.

"Use your mouth."

James complied. As he wrapped his mouth around the now hard cock in front of him he was slightly concerned at the sheer size of it. James moved his mouth in rhythm with the increasingly intense noises coming from Rochester. He felt Rochester's nails digging into his shoulders, scraping the bones that sat all too closely to his skin.

"Swallow it." Rochester said sharply, just before he came with such force that James feared he would choke.

He did not choke, of course; people rarely do.

As he regained his breath he felt Rochester roll him over and lay on top of him. Although the man was not particularly heavy, James could not help but wince at the weight against his bruised back and at the feeling of his ribs against the hard mattress under him.

There was hardness behind him, too.

"You, dear boy, are very beautiful." Rochester did not expect an answer, nor did he expect thanks. It had not been a compliment inasmuch as it had been an evaluation. An evaluation of goods purchased.

James said nothing. He was not here for his conversation. Besides, he knew his aesthetic appeal.

Vanity?

Perhaps.

He knew he was beautiful. He knew also that a man such as himself could pay his way with a face such as this when the necessity was apparent.

As Rochester entered him, James was far away. This job took more than beauty, you see, it took a great deal of indifference. James Macleane had mastered the art of indifference long ago.   
 

James had returned to his father's house, to the last scene he would perform in that house, his childhood home. There had been a fight. There had been many fights. He could no longer recall the details of each one.

What he did recall were his parting words to his father, to his clergyman father who was shouting fire and brimstone and hell and eternal damnation.

"I would rather be remembered as remarkably unsuccessful than a mediocre success," he had told his father before leaving that house for the last time.

That was his greatest fear - mediocrity. Oh, and death of course. But perhaps I should not have told you that, dear reader? After all, a fear of death is the most mediocre and banal fear of them all.   
 

As he lay beneath Rochester, James Macleane suspected that this was what it was to be remarkably unsuccessful.

His father would be so proud.   
 

That had been the first time he had been fucked by Lord Rochester.

Between this and the last time he would engage in the activity, several months would pass and I will leave that period to your own imagination or to the pen or some other intrepid author to fill. Some believe once you have read one sex scene you have read them all and although I do not believe that this is the case I will admit that there is only so much sex I can write within one section.

The last time he would fuck Lord Rochester would be under circumstances quite different from the first, but frighteningly similar nonetheless. He was neither bruised nor broken, at least not in body, the state of his mind or spirit I will leave to you to deduct.

He had taken a 'position' within Rochester's household and there he had lived for several months introduced to any soul with the lack of tact to enquire as 'Captain James Macleane'. James entertained Rochester and his many friends and in return he was generously rewarded. It should have been the ideal situation for a young man in his position, however a feeling of discontent had begun to grow and no matter how he fucked or gambled or drank, the feeling grew.   
 

Rochester lay, only partially clothed, on the enormous bed.

"Come here, Jamie." His was no come hither tone. It was the voice of a person who expects obedience, a person with power and control.

This was no great romance. Rochester was not in love with him. James suspected that Rochester did rather like him, but then again Rochester had a tendency to like beautiful things.

As James moved closer to him, Rochester examined the naked form before him. Tall and lean with pale skin and enough hair over his chest to suggest masculinity but without destroying the vulnerability that extended his beauty. A good face, perhaps a better face than a body, Rochester rarely cared for faces, but this was an exceptionally nice one. Pretty eyes, a straight nose and such dark lips. Excessively dark, as if all the blood in his pale body had rushed straight to that point and was now trapped.

It was a good face. Perhaps this explained why Rochester had barely tired of the boy's company in the months he had kept him in his home.

Rochester pulled the other man towards him, on top of him. He ran his hands over those lips and then ran his fingers down, down the neck, down the chest.

"Do you want to fuck me Jamie?"

The boy didn't answer him. He never did.

Instead James placed his mouth on Rochester's nipple, and between gently biting it, little nips that didn't quite hurt, he sucked it as if searching for nourishment.

Rochester ran his nails up and down Macleane's back. They were long enough to scratch, but he did not intend to cause pain. It was not that he disliked pain or that he had a fear of inflicting it upon others. It was simply that pain bored Rochester, it was inevitable and unavoidable. He felt no need to wallow in it. It was not part of his character.

James had moved on to the other nipple and was paying this one even more attention than the first.

Rochester imagined for a moment what it would be like to fall in love with this man. As if trying the role for a moment, he cupped James' face in his hands and gently kissed the mouth in front of him.

A flicker of emotion swept through James' face and then disappeared beneath the mask he always wore, a mask of petulant indifference. Rochester wondered what he had just seen. As he pretended that it was hopeless and desperate love, he suspected it was contempt.

Still playing the man in love, Rochester began to gently kiss the boy's neck. Gentle kisses that suckled slightly but firmly, designed for intimacy, designed to breed affection between the two lovers that lay entwined together. He ran his hand through the other mans hair and laid little kisses across his torso. He wondered at the possibility of falling in love, desperately and hopelessly in romantic love. The possibility of being so consumed by passion that he became unable to think with any degree of reason, unable to think but of the beautiful James Macleane.

There was a good reason that Lord Rochester had never happened upon the occasion of falling in love.

It was not because he had never met the right man.

It was because he found the idea considerably boring.   
 

As he was pushed off Rochester and onto his stomach, James was hardly surprised. If anything he was relieved. This was a role he could perform with certainty.

Rochester rammed into him without ceremony. Pleasure or passion did not overcome James. Rochester increased the speed and intensity of his thrusts. James realised that he no longer felt indifferent. As Rochester climaxed, James finally realised the discontent that he had been feeling for the past weeks.   
It was the discontent that comes with wanting.   
 

This would be the last time he would fuck Lord Rochester. The next day he would take what little he had saved and leave to make his fortune. Unfortunately, drink and drugs rarely lead to a prosperous lifestyle (although at times they may be symbolic of one) and gambling - especially if one is as poor a gambler as James Macleane - can have a precarious effect on one's wealth. So within weeks of his departure, James Macleane would indeed be in prison and would be in and out of the institution until he met Plunkett and embarked upon his new career.   
 

Are there definitive moments in life? Moments where a person suddenly understands himself better and, as if a wave of enlightenment has hit, moments in which he perceives his purpose within the world, sees what he wants and what he must do to obtain it?

I doubt it.

However, in stories there are definitive moments, and that last time with Rochester was certainly one for Macleane.

It was that last time with Rochester that it occurred to James Macleane what it was that he wanted.

He wanted to be on the other side of the transaction.


	2. A Ruby in the Rough

It is now time to meet two players who will have a great significance within this tale. Two very different characters that will each influence the actions and desires of our protagonist, 'Captain' James Macleane.

The first will be Mr Chance. You may have met him before? If not, it is likely you have met a man like him. He is an unpleasant man, quite horrid, a very nasty man. He is bad in the way only characters within fiction can be, with no redeeming features to contradict or complicate his dark nature. You should dislike him, abhor him, be repulsed by the very thought of him. If you are not, if I do not succeed in conveying his terrible and evil nature, then my narration has been ineffectual indeed. Thankfully, considering the vileness of his person, the time spent with Mr Chance will be brief within this segment of our story. But I beg you, remember him, he will be of the utmost importance at a later stage.

The other important figure that we will soon meet is Will Plunkett. I have mentioned him in passing previously. I like him. I hope you do too. He is clever and kind and sensitive yet hides his charm beneath a rough demeanour. He is a good man. Even in the world of fiction I have found few like him. Plunkett is, as they say, a diamond in the rough.

A diamond in the rough? Let's not talk of diamonds! Let us speak of rubies. It was after all, a ruby that brought together the talents of James Macleane and Will Plunkett and in doing so created them both as the adversary of our villain Mr Chance.

James Macleane felt movement all around. He was in an enclosed carriage with no seats and a tiny barred window. He did not quite recall how he had come to be riding in this contraption. However, this was not the first time he had occupied such a carriage. He closed his eyes as he remembered where such a vehicle would transport him.

Flashes of recent events were running in fragments through his mind. Vague memories of his sentencing, of the severity in the voice of the judge as he stated with a well performed gravity - "For drunkenness and unruly behaviour causing an affray and disturbing the kings peace, I hereby sentence you to be placed in Knightsbridge debtors gaol and to be held there until you are sober." James had not been able to disguise the laugh that had escaped him at the judge's final words. He could not remember the last time he had been completely sober and had difficulty imagining such a moment in the immediate future.

Struggling to create a context for his present surroundings, despite the heavy fog of intoxication, Macleane realised he was headed to Knightsbridge. To the debtor's gaol in Knightsbridge. Sobriety was inching towards him. It was an unpleasant feeling to say the least.

He dealt with it. Reaching into the layers of his clothing he located his hip flask and took a good long drink.

He stood and peered out the small barred window of the carriage. At first he could see nothing but the low mist that covered the entire countryside. Then out of this mist came an object flying straight towards the carriage - a huge metal and wooden wheel. As the wheel collided with the carriage James threw himself backwards. A sharp spoke missed his head by inches at the very most.

It took him moments to understand that the collision had caused the carriage and horses to overturn. It took a few further moments to understand that two highwaymen had ambushed the carriage and the younger of the two had his pistol aimed at James' head.

When James first heard the shot, he thought that he had taken the bullet and could not understand why he felt no pain or suffering. It took only a few seconds to clear his confusion as he realised he was not in pain for he had not been shot.   
He saw the young highwayman, a young man who was younger than he himself, fall to the ground. Soldiers who were approaching from the distance had shot him in the back.

It was the case of one man's misfortune being another's prosperity and frankly James did not feel a great deal of pity.

His partner in crime had joined the young man. This man was older, several years older, and he crouched near his bleeding friend holding him in his arms. As he hid in the shadows of the broken carriage James heard the unlucky man tell his friend, "The ruby. I swallowed it."

The older man did not reply, he held his friend tighter still, as if afraid he would disappear in thin air.

James found that he was watching the older highwayman intently. He was watching with fascination the pain on the man's face as he realised that his friend was dying. James was watching the tenderness with which he held him, his reluctance to leave his dying friend despite understanding that if he did not they would both be dead.

Macleane saw a moment pass between these two men that he almost recognised, yet it was layered with feelings that he had not yet learnt or experienced. It was layered with feelings that he did not yet believe in.

Then the older man was gone.

That man was Will Plunkett.

It was a matter of moments later that James Macleane first saw Mr Chance. When he first saw Mr Chance James mistook him for someone else entirely. For a moment he thought it was his own father standing before him and he was afraid. Then he realised that it was not his father, just a man that stood with the same posture of moral superiority and religious authority. His fear subsided a little.

James watched with a horrified fascination as Chance stood over the dying man. He was asking questions that the boy  (it occurred to James now that this highwayman was no more than a boy) would not answer, questions that would betray the man that had minutes earlier held this boy in his arms.

Chance positioned the heel of one of his large black boots above the boy's chest wound and then pressed into it with all his weight. Despite the pain the boy still did not break.

Macleane did not understand such loyalty. James feared, had he found himself in this unfortunate boy's position, he would have done anything, hurt anyone, to simply stop such torture.

Now Chance was digging his fingers into the wound itself. The boy screamed in agony but still he did not supply the answers Chance was after.

Chance was enjoying this, James could see that. He had the expression on his face that those who can not smile adopt when they are feeling pleasure. It is a frightening expression and in that moment this man named Mr Chance looked more like James' father than ever.

The boy, despite his agony, was still silent. Chance did not mind, he was enjoying this game. His hands now left the wound and wandered into the boy's eye. The terrible hand pushed into the socket and then wrenched the eyeball from it. The boy was screaming as he died.

James Macleane now felt pity for the young highwayman.

He also felt relief. The man was not his clergyman father. Just yet another man who was playing a similar character.

Mr. Chance and his soldiers left as quickly as they had arrived and gathering his wits James made his escape.

Now in the aftermath of this terrible experience it was neither thoughts of Plunkett nor Chance that invaded James Macleane's mind. Although both these characters will come to have a great importance in the way our story ends, at this point another issue plagued James consciousness.

One small but very valuable issue.

The Ruby.

It was with this Ruby in mind that James had waited at the graveyard, waited patiently while the young boy's body had been buried and then waited with even greater patience for night to fall. He had abetted this patience with the little alcohol he had remaining in his hip flask and attempted to muster courage for the task to come.

It was as he was attempting to uncover the body that he heard it.

"Psst."

He turned to the direction that the sound had come from and there stood Will Plunkett towering over him with his gun pointed directly at James head.

The words came out before he could stop them, "Don't shoot me. Please, please don't shoot me."

"Shut up and dig you bastard beggar." Was the only response.

James heard his voice as it began to ramble; "I'm neither of those things actually." Now James heard his own laugh, a slightly hysterical laugh. "I'm the son of a clergyman!"

"Get on with it. Faster."

These words made James laugh with an even greater degree of hysteria. He had heard such phrases many a time and from many different men, but never within the context of grave robbery and larceny.

James dug as quickly as was possible. Reaching the body he found it had not fared well. The stench was amazing and the sight was only slightly more bearable. The corpse was a mess and worms had already begun to burrow into every wound and cavity. James looked at the body in horror and glanced at Plunkett to examine the other man's reaction.

Plunkett also appeared somewhat horrified but this horror was mixed with something else. It was the same expression with which James had seen him stare at this corpse with when this corpse had been a dying man. It was the expression that James almost understood but could not quite articulate.

Then as if remembering where he was and the company he was in Plunkett turned from the body of his friend and instead threw a sharp knife towards James.

"Do it," he said.

James had approached this task with the vague understanding that once the body was uncovered there would be a need to remove the ruby from this unlucky corpse. Certainly the dead man would not be so obliging as to spit it out for him.

Performing the task was quite a different matter than contemplating it, however. James Macleane was certain that if Plunkett had not been standing there he would not have gone through with it. It is amazing what can be done when a gun is being held to one's head.

This should have been the end of it, perhaps. The ruby recovered, these two men could part ways. Plunkett considerably richer and Macleane no worse off than he had been before. However this story is to be both an adventure and a romance and as you have probably noticed there has been very little adventure or romance as of yet. So the tale can not end here. Plunkett and Macleane do not part ways. Nothing is that simple in the world of romance and adventure.

The ruby had barely been recovered when the sounds of horses and shouting and the flashing of lanterns indicated that soldiers were close upon them. And so, Plunkett ran. Having no other option Macleane also ran - after Plunkett. It seemed there were soldiers all over the graveyard, there was no where to run to, that was obvious. Plunkett placed the ruby within his mouth and swallowed it.

"We have to surrender," James hissed at Plunkett.

"Surrender is for wankers," was the reply.

It took Macleane only moments to contemplate these words. Standing, he cried, "We surrender!"

This is how it came to be that a ruby brought 'Captain' James Macleane and Will Plunkett together. It is also how James Macleane and Will Plunkett came to be entering Newgate Prison at the very moment that an old acquaintance of Macleane's came to be leaving it.

Escorted by two guards Lord Perham glided down the front steps of Newgate with as much style and grace as he had descended the main staircase at Rochester's or sailed across the ballroom floor at the season's finest gatherings.   
"Lord Perham." James greeted him. "Are you free?"

Perham stared at James for a moment, "In a manner of speaking. My debts are to be paid in full." Perham gestured towards the cart that would transport him away from the prison, which also held the coffin - his home for ever after.

What can one say at such a moment? Perhaps if he had been a gentleman James would have understood the appropriate ettique to apply in such a situation. James was not a gentleman and he knew not what to say to the man before him except for a muttered, "Sorry, Perham."

Perham appeared amused by his discomfort. "Mr. Harrison, " he said turning to the head of the gaol, "Give 'Captain' Macleane my berth in the royal suite. I am sure he will prove a lucrative guest."

"Thank you my Lord." Macleane said softly, looking away from the condemned man. Then he added without even meaning to utter the words, "I hope its quick."

Perham was already striding with an elegant confidence to the cart. Standing beside his own casket Perham smiled. The smile of superiority that James had seen upon many an occasion and from many different men. "When one goes, Jamie, one must go in style."

Plunkett, who had watched the exchange between the two men with an avid fascination, could not help but laugh at this. He laughed loudly and with no fear of censure. Besides, what is there to fear from a dead man?

As the cart drove away with Perham standing straight and proud, Plunkett continued to laugh. Macleane, on the other hand, did not know what to feel.

Death was a fascination in itself. This is hardly exceptional. Death is a fascination for many a young man that allows himself the luxury of contemplation upon the meaning of life. It was an experience, however, that James preferred to experience vicariously.

This is an aspect of 'Captain' James Macleane that may at first appear as contradictory but should be understood, dear reader. As self-destructive as he may be, as nihilistic as he may desire to become, James Macleane was by no means suicidal. James doubted he had the potential for such a mind set. He valued his life far too greatly. He feared death far too much. It was not his clergyman father's promises of hell and eternal damnation that created such a fear in James Macleane. That he was sure he could cope with. It was the fear that perhaps there was no hell and eternal damnation. The fear that all of this would come to nothing and he would simply cease to exist. He could not imagine not living in the world. He could not imagine the world without him in it. This was not egotism. If you stop to consider carefully you will see this was the exact opposite.

At this point James understood his fear of death as a weakness, yet another sign of inferiority and cowardice. I would argue differently. But then, I too dislike the idea of mortality, the unfairness of it all.

James would lay awake later that evening thinking of Perham. He would remember times they had spent together at Rochester's, the other man's hands upon him as if performing some integral examination of his body. Such a memory would have previously held little allure, but somehow the knowledge that this man was now dead made it an attractive fantasy. He wondered what his final thoughts had been of, if he had felt fear in those moments, if the fear had been apparent on his face. He wondered what Perham looked like at this moment. What he would have looked like in twenty or thirty years. What he would look like in twenty or thirty years.

These thoughts were comforting, somehow. They made him feel safe.

While Macleane was contemplating death, Plunkett had been considering more immediate concerns. The ruby that lay in the depths of his bowels. The ruby that, with the correct negotiations, could buy his freedom. It was with the importance of negotiation in mind that he went to visit James Macleane in the royal suite that afternoon. As Plunkett entered the chambers he could not help but notice the stark difference between the treatment of aristocratic and 'ordinary' prisoners. In the royal suite there appeared food aplenty, comfortable beds to sleep in, an abundance of alcohol and the time was spent in gambling and gossip. Compared to the overcrowded section of the gaol he had been placed in, where rats and cockroaches almost outnumbered the prisoners, this was luxury. Macleane's inmates were the types of men that Plunkett despised. Foolish and arrogant they did not realise the value of what they had. They lived wasted and empty lives enjoying a feeling of superiority that had been bought at the expense of the rest of society. These men stared at Plunkett with a kind of repulsed fascination. Plunkett in turn was repulsed but not fascinated. These people bored him. They were transparent, their pretensions banal, and he had no interest in them.

Macleane was another matter entirely. James Macleane he found strangely fascinating. It was not his beauty so much, although that did nothing to inhibit his interest, it was rather his contradictory nature. The young man spoke with the tone of education yet was obviously poor, he attempted the affected airs of the aristocracy but was obviously not one of them, he had contacts among the wealthy and privileged yet his relationship with this class was uncertain and suspicious.

Furthermore, Plunkett imagined that James Macleane had a certain look buried deep within his eyes. A look that indicated a depth of feeling, of sensibility that was as rare and valuable as the ruby that lay within his own stomach.

I can not tell you, dear reader, if this was the case. I can only tell you that Will Plunkett suspected that it was. I should warn you, Will Plunkett was a hopeless romantic at heart. Plunkett did not understand James Macleane, but sensed that he was a person that could perhaps be worth the effort.

James was not esspecially pleased to see Plunkett. In fact, at first he was not pleased at all. He did not particularly wish to be associated with such a person, particularly in front of his fellow inmates. Social standing was as much about who you were seen standing with as it was to do with wealth or history or family connections. To be seen standing with Plunkett was not exactly a prestigious position.

"What do you want?" he hissed under his breath. "You have seriously compromised my social standing..."

His sentence was cut short as Plunkett threw him with considerable force against the wall.

"Are you going to be a prick your entire life?" Plunkett's hand had found his way around James' throat. His grip upon the other man was tight, not affecting the air passage but a definite reminder of how easy he would find it to do so. He looked hard at James, attempting to read his blank expression. The facade of rehearsed petulance stared back at him, a sulky stare, like that of a spoiled child.

James felt a chill run through his spine at the sensation of the man's hand upon him. It was not exactly fear that he felt, but rather that other feeling that is strangely similar and that some people mistake for love.

Plunkett pushed him with such force that his head hit the wall. James felt the strange desire well again inside him. He wished that his head would be hit in such a way again. And again. And again. Smashed by Plunkett until there was nothing left of it. Until Plunket found what was underneath. Until James was no longer recognisable. He was attracted to Plunkett's strength, his intensity. There was something undeniably real, something solid and tangible, about this man that held him in so firm a grip. He wanted Plunkett to look at him in the way he had stared at his young friend, he wanted Plunkett to hold him in his arms in a similar fashion.

Plunkett was speaking. "Alright chinless, remember that Ruby?" His hand tightened around the throat, just slightly.

"What? The one that everybody eats?"

Plunkett ignored him. "We can buy our way out of this place."

That attracted James attention. "Well, where is it?"

Plunkett patted his own stomach in response.

"Oh, marvellous! My freedom is at the mercy of your bowel movements." James spoke before remembering that he was at the mercy of Plunkett's temper.

Plunkett smashed James into the wall once more. "Our freedom."

"Slip of the tongue," said James dryly as Plunkett loosened his hold upon him.

"I provide the ruby, you do the talking." Plunkett explained.

James could see the irony in this proposition, he was rarely paid to talk. "We have a gentleman's agreement." He pushed past Plunkett. "Now if you will excuse me, the gaoler's daughter requires my attention."

With those words he strode to the mattress upon which the young woman had been waiting for him and they proceeded to fuck in a style that was more suggestive of a performance for an audience than a shared experience with one's partner. Plunkett watched this display and could not help but wonder what such a performance was attempting to prove and whom it was attempting to convince.

Nature took its course, Plunkett's bowels operated as nature intended, Macleane kept his agreement and in due course both men were free.

As they left the gaol Plunkett fell in step with James and began to speak. "A wise man might get rich by listening in the right places."

James attempted to fall out of stride with Plunkett, "I'm sure he might."

Plunkett simply altered his pace so that they were once again walking together. "See, what I am saying is... we could prosper together, you and I."

James sighed. He wanted this man gone. And to find his way to the nearest tavern. James stopped and turned to face his unwanted companion. "Look, I'm not altogether sure what you're suggesting. You see, I'm a gentleman, and well no offence intended, but, but would you *mind awfully fucking off*?" Unfortunately for James what he had hoped would be a dramatic and elegant exit that would both stun and impress the other man was foiled as he found himself pushed roughly into a nearby puddle by two passing gentleman. "Beggar," one sneered at him, and the other laughed hysterically.

James sat for a moment, blinded by humiliation before he noticed the hand that was extended towards him. It was attached to Plunkett. Macleane looked at Plunkett for a moment. Plunkett was not a gentleman, he was not wealthy or privileged. However, he was strong and brave, he had not thought to surrender to the soldiers, he was not a pawn for the rich and privileged in  the various games that they played. Plunkett took from the rich and privileged, he stole from them without fear or regret. Part of Macleane wanted to be like this man. Not frightened and cowardly. Not afraid of what he could not have and would never be.

Another part wanted to be close to him. He wanted to be protected and cared for and perhaps loved. He wanted to be held, as Plunkett had held the unlucky Rob in those final moments. He wanted to feel the other man's arms around him, his lips upon his neck, his hands within his hair. He wanted the other man to weep hot tears for him upon his grave (and he wanted to feel those tears upon his own body). He wanted love at first sight to be real. He wanted impossible things in that moment.

The moment passed, as all moments do. Although his feelings did not subside or lose their intensity, they became obscured beneath other concerns. His feelings lost shape and clarity and were no longer recognisable.

The script changed. James remembered what was important to him. He thought of Rochester, he thought of wealth and privilege, he thought of power. James thought of the many roles he had performed in other people's games and productions.

He remembered the role he wished to perform. The leading role in his own production.

Forgetting notions of love and romance James Macleane took the hand that was offered to him.


	3. The Party

Will Plunkett was tired. At first he had thrived upon this lifestyle. The life of a highwayman had been, if not glamorous, at the very least exciting. Adrenalin had flowed through his veins with each ambush. An amazing rush had come with each small victory. He had barely recognised the victories were so small - hardly worth the effort. Reflecting, he realised he had treated it all as if it were a game. He had behaved arrogantly, and the price had been high. His young friend Rob was dead and Plunkett was tired. He wanted out. Out of this lifestyle, out of his poverty, out of the whole fucking country.   
  
Information could turn this endeavour from an arrogant game into an organised and profitable venture. Plunkett knew this. He understood the importance of information, the value of it.   
  
James Macleane was also tired. He was tired of leading an insignificant life. He was tired of being an insignificant figure in the lives of others. He was tired of being bought and sold. Oh, everyone had a price; he just wished that his price were higher.   
  
In a way, Plunkett had bought him now. Plunkett did not see that he had done so, but he had. For different purposes than Rochester, with different intentions, but bought nonetheless. He had been bought for his 'contacts' and for his ability to gain information. While some may have thought that this was preferable to his past arrangement with Rochester, it made no difference really - he was still expected to perform for others' amusement. However, this would be his last performance that was played out upon another man's terms. The curtain would fall after this show was over.   
  
James was thankful that memories were short beyond the season. It would not matter to these people whose whore he had been last season. What would matter would be what he did now. What he wore and played and said and ate. Where he wore and played and said and ate it. Who he wore and played and said and ate it with. There were always new fashions, fresh gossip, the latest scandals to occupy the minds and imaginations of his valuable contacts. And at the height of the social season they would have difficulty recalling last weeks engagements let alone what he had done months prior. Thank God for the self-absorption of others - it would not do to have too much attention called to his precarious past relationship with the upper classes.   
  
Performance was the key to the successful acquisition of the information Plunkett coveted. Performance was the key to everything. James Macleane knew this. He appreciated the significance of performance, the inevitability of it.   
  
And so the costumes and sets were acquired. Rooms were leased at the Athena, not the most prestigious lodgings in London but exclusive enough to add an air of respectability without being threatening. Tailors were hired, the wardrobe was compiled. As his character took shape James Macleane could not help but admire the fine figure he cut. Staring into the mirror he was pleased to observe the image of a fine young gentleman returning his gaze.   
  
The image made him smile - he looked every bit the part of the fine young gentleman. He looked every bit the fine young gentleman. He was a fine young gentleman.   
  
However, the only reaction his fine new image provoked in his business partner was a sharp, almost reproachful, reminder. "Remember, this is business not pleasure." This was a distinction that Macleane had long understood as useless. All business was always somebodies pleasure - that was the whole point. He did not argue the point however, just made a face in Plunkett's direction and continued to admire his reflection in the glass. His first external audience would come soon enough.   
  
Every role, regardless of the sophistication of the actor that gives it a body, is reliant upon an audience. The role of a gentleman is no exception. The role of a gentleman is reliant upon a special and specific audience - the audience of 'good' society.   
  
Now, 'good' society (which is often very, very bad - but in fiction like this never mediocre) is not a thing that one will just stumble across or enter uninvited. That is just not possible.   
  
'Good' society is a space, rather than a place, and as such you can be at the same function, in the same room, at the same table, engaged in the same conversation as the members of 'good' society and still be excluded from its ranks. You would not be an intruder - to intrude you would have needed to gain entry - you would simply not be there. You would be in the right place, but in the wrong space - see?   
  
James Macleane knew this. He knew that successful intrusion upon the space of 'good' society relied upon the favour and indulgence of an influential contact.   
  
James Macleane had only one influential contact. Thankfully it was a bloody good one.   
  
Lord Rochester.   
  
And so it happened that James Macleane, looking handsome and dashing, happened to cross paths with Lord Rochester, rekindle a past acquaintance and acquire an invitation and entry to the functions of "good" society - an invitation that allowed a definite access to the place and with Lord Rochester's approval a precarious invasion of the space.   
  
These functions were ideal to the purpose of excavating the information Plunkett required and the admiration and attentions that Macleane thrived upon.   
  
The first major function was a party at Lord Rochester's. The party was already well under way when Capt. James Macleane made his entrance. He mingled, drank and gambled and smiled at the idea that he could consider this business. He had never been particularly successful at the gaming tables and tonight was no exception. However, his misfortune was for perhaps the first time beneficial to him. Few wealthy men would dislike the companionship at their tables of a handsome and agreeable young gentleman with extraordinarily bad luck. Not only did he routinely lose - but he would rarely do so without a smile. He could smile pleasantly, play badly and simply watch, waiting for opportunities to present themselves. Watch who had won this evening and who would be leaving empty handed. Watch and learn. Learn whose carriage would provide a fruitful return if it happened to be stopped by highwaymen. It was amazing the type of information that the wealthy and powerful would disclose when they mistook you for an object, a piece of furniture. It would never occur to these people that a pretty young thing such as James Macleane could have thoughts and feelings and ulterior motives. It would be unimaginable that he could exist beyond their attentions to him. And so he listened and collected the information Plunkett needed.   
  
"So, who else does fortune favour this evening?" he asked Rochester. "Apart from yourself, that is." Rochester nodded his head at the figure of an over fed man seated at one of the farthest gaming tables. "Lord Chief Justice Gibson. His opponents always let him win." Rochester's tone was snide. "I wonder why?" "Is he filthy rich or stinking rich?" "Fucking rich." And with that Rochester sailed off across the room to greet some of his more colourful guests.   
  
James found it was difficult not to be reminded of different times, of other parties held in these same rooms. These parties would always continue well into the night, ending in Rochester's private quarters, sometimes with a few of Rochester's close friends, more often with at least half a dozen of his intimate acquaintance. It was accepted amongst this intimate set that Jamie was Rochester's boy, his 'companion' - it would have lacked breeding to refer to him as a whore - and as such he was always a very friendly lad.   
  
James remembered the aftermath of one such party. Throughout that particular evening Rochester had developed an interest in the younger cousin of his dear friend Lord Perham. If the cousin had a name, I cannot tell it to you as it meant very little to Rochester and even less to James. This young cousin was a poor relation, and would have been a considerable embarrassment to Perham if it had not been for his pretty manners and handsome face. However, a pretty face and handsome manners combined with an easy temperament and a will to please will recommend a young man wherever he travels. Indeed, Perham had grown quite fond of him and thus made it a rule to take this cousin with him wherever he went. They really were very intimate. This vexed Rochester, who had been itching the entire evening to get the young cousin alone. "Jamie." Rochester sharply pinched the skin near James' waist for emphasis. "If we don't do something I will go mad, quite simply mad. Perham is driving me crazy, he won't leave that boy's side for an instant, he is being absolutely impossible!"  
  
"I don't know what you want me to do about it," James said lightly, knowing very well what Rochester wanted done about it. "You know how much family means to Perham, he is so very close to his cousin that I sometimes think - "   
  
James was cut off as an irritated Rochester dug his nails into James' side. "Use your bloody imagination, Jamie. Distract the bastard, get him out of my hair, just make sure he is elsewhere and that cousin is here."   
  
Perham lay upon Rochester's bed whispering in his cousin's ear. James slid beside him, lying as closely as he could to the intimate couple without actually touching either man. Neither so much as looked at him, which was quite disconcerting. James made an admirable attempt to conceal his own irritation and disinterest. Perham did not appeal to him. He was not repulsive. Indeed he was naturally handsome and his manners were adequate enough to pass as style. But natural beauty was hardly difficult; with the help of money all but the most unfortunate could pass as a natural beauty if they applied themselves to the task with enough vigour. Perham bored him; he had not cultivated the exuberance or wit that made Rochester such an enigmatic figure. James moved closer to the couple, ensuring that his body was touching Perham's own. Perham glanced sideways at Jamie, but did not respond, continuing to whisper into his cousin's ear. The young cousin, drunk or otherwise intoxicated, barely noticed that a third figure had appeared upon the bed. James placed his hand upon Perham's leg, a simple gesture, pointed but simple. He had expected Perham to ignore this motion also and was surprised to find Perham cover his hand in his own. Perham wrapped his fingers around James' hand and slowly brought the captured hand up to his own mouth. He kissed it softly; it was an almost romantic gesture. "Hello Jamie." Perham had turned on his side and was now facing James Macleane, his back to the cousin he held so dear. If it had not been a victory of sorts James might have felt disgusted with such duplicity. James smiled. "Lord Perham." Perham began to unbutton his clothing, but Macleane stopped him, catching Perham's hands in his own. "No, Perham. Not here." And to stifle any argument he leant towards Perham and covered his lips with his own. As he pulled away from the other man and rolled from the bed, James did not need to look back; he knew Perham would follow him. And Perham did follow him, leaving a delighted Rochester alone with the young cousin who was intoxicated enough to be pliable but not comatose, just as Rochester liked them.   
  
However that had been another night, another party, a season ago for Jamie and a lifetime ago for Perham. Perham was not at this party tonight. Perham had been hanged. Perham was dead. James had barely thought of Perham when the man had been alive. Macleane may have admired Perham's clothing, his confidence, and his aristocratic nature if he had been in his company, but he would forget him as soon as his body was absent. Perham had not interested Macleane in life. In death, however, he was an infinite fascination. Indeed he had been a constant preoccupation after their meeting at Newgate; he had invaded James' mind and would not leave. James would dream of the dead man. It was the same dream every night. Perham stood on the gallows about to hang - he was frightened, James could smell his fear, taste his tears. James would not want to look at the condemned man, yet he could not look away; he was transfixed. The moment was suspended, as if time stopped, leaving him only with a terrible waiting. Then time began to move again and the gallows fell suddenly and Perham fell with them and James, who suddenly could look away, turned towards the executioner only to find a familiar face staring back at him. And then James would wake, his body cased in sweat, drenched. He would hear his breath, loud and hard and frantic. It was the same every night. The bile would rise within his throat and his eyes would fill with tears. Not from fear, not from sadness, but from shame. He was hard, more aroused and excited than he had ever been before. He was ashamed.   
  
The thoughts were interrupted when he saw her. A vision, the very portrait of feminine perfection. It was love at first sight. In that instant James Macleane fell into a deep attraction to the very thought, the very idea of the woman who stood across the room from him. He fell in love with everything that her image seemed to represent. Respectability, wealth, beauty, the potential of it all. He fell in love with the notion that she could fall in love with him. It was a powerful moment.   
  
There are some who may question the validity of such a love at first sight. I think I use to. Some may indicate that perhaps such a love can not be, as how could one feel such an intense and powerful feeling towards a person that they do not even know? I would counter these critics of love and romance that their sentiments reflect a naivety disguised as cynicism. They do not understand love. Of course it is possible to fall immediately and directly in love with the idea of somebody! It is falling in love with the person beyond that idea which is an improbability, not least because such a person beyond that idea does not exist.   
  
The woman now stood beside him. She had crossed the floor and now stood beside him. She was speaking. She was speaking to him. "You are not a gentleman," she said smiling. "No gentleman would stare at a lady like that in public."  
  
It took James a moment to regain his voice. "I do beg your pardon." He made an effort to bow, an attempt at convention to hide his ill ease. "Capt. James Macleane, at your service."  
  
"Oh," She stared right at him, right through him. "So you are a gentleman?"  
  
"Yes."   
  
"What a shame." And then she left him and once again crossed the floor leaving a confused and speechless James Macleane staring after her.   
  
"Jamie - " Rochester had returned to his side.   
  
"Who is that?" James interrupted.   
  
Rochester glanced towards the woman and smiled, "Lady Rebecca Gibson." He laughed. "Very choice. Very choosy." James sighed. Rochester was still speaking, it seemed, introducing James to someone or other, but it was all James could do to smile and nod in their general direction. Without even realising it he began to follow Lady Rebecca across the room. It was Rochester's hand upon his arm that stopped him. 

"I shouldn't get too attached, Jamie." Rochester whispered in his ear. "She may be choosy, but the choice won't be hers. Her uncle - her guardian - will choose for her readily enough." James glanced at his friend, his eyebrows raised in a question. Rochester really was a wealth of information. Rochester smiled; pleased his gossip had caught his friend's interest. "The... delightful... Mr Chance, has expressed an interest in making the young Lady his blushing bride. I would expect an announcement any day now." The name in itself was enough to shock Macleane. He freed himself from Rochester's grasp and finding the words expressed a need for air. As James walked away, a puzzled Rochester wondered at the strength of his reaction.   
  
It was not simply the mention of Chance himself that troubled Macleane. Although the man was certainly vile enough to provoke such a response, it was not the memory of Chance that plagued James. Other memories engulfed him. Mr Chance reminded James of his father. They did not look alike, yet walked with the same stature, bible tucked under the arm, the look of pious distaste at all around them. It was this performance of moral indignation that rendered them almost indistinguishable from one another. It was this moral indignation that James found most repulsive. Moral indignation, he had found, was an efficient disguise against ones own guilt. It was an effective shield against the judgement that others may wield if they were to suspect what you had done and all that you had wished to do.   
  
James Macleane hoped for Rebecca that she should not marry Mr Chance. More than he hoped that he could marry her; he hoped that she would not marry that man. He had seen what a life of marriage to such a man could produce.   
  
His father had been a clergyman. He had given public sermons twice every Sunday in his scream that was not a scream. He had given private sermons to his son and wife at every other opportunity.   
  
He thought or perhaps imagined (is there really any difference?) that Rebecca was like his mother. Soft and beautiful, dark haired and doe eyed. But then, he did not remember much of his mother; she had been dead for a long time and few people spoke of her.   
  
A woman had come to the parish once, when James was ten or eleven. She had enquired if the minister was in and instead of leaving when informed of his absence she entered the house. The woman had said she was his mother's sister, his aunt, and she had told him things about his mother that had happened before his existence was even a possibility. She then left before his father returned and did not come again.   
  
He had often wished since that he should have known his mother then, when she was young and hopeful that her life would at some point begin. When she knew not what she wanted and not what she would do, but that whatever it was it would be magnificent. Before she realised that this was her life, a marriage to a cruel man that hid behind his moral superiority and a child she had not wanted and couldn't love. He often wished he could have known her before she had come to realise that this was the life she had waited for, before she hanged herself from the beams in her husband's church on Christmas day. Before she left her body for her eight-year-old boy to find as he came to sweep the floor of the church in preparation for the service.   
  
She could not be buried on church land; they took her body away and she was gone. His father forbade him to speak of her and it was an easy task as he had very little to say. He did not miss the mother he had had. He missed the mother that perhaps in another lifetime she could have been. And his father, father of hypocrites, father to hypocrites, screamed fire and brimstone at him. (In his scream that was not a scream.)   
  
James was no longer a little boy. He was now a man. Yet in that moment, as Rochester's party raged around him, he was every bit the little boy. He was a little boy sitting on the cold hard floor of a little country church. It was Christmas day and he sat on that floor, looking, waiting. He sat and looked at an image he could not understand, at a vision he could not comprehend. He wanted to look away and yet he could not. She hung there. He did not scream or cry. He had not been frightened. He just sat and watched her.   
  
James forced himself to focus upon the sound around him - he felt the scene before him melt away. As he looked at the decadence around him, the decadence of Rochester's rooms, of the food that would not be eaten, the clothes that would be worn once and disposed of and at the people who were every bit as disposable, it occurred to him, for not the first time, that morality was far more connected with affordability than it was to some idea of a spiritual essence. These people, with their wealth, power and privilege could afford the high moral standard expected of them. They could also afford to bribe the keepers of the law and the religion if they slipped upon that path to heaven. Others found the cost of such ideals far too expensive.   
  
His thoughts had taken him away from the main body of the party and to a small room that lay off the main parlour. It was the type of room that is useless, too small to entertain in and too large to be considered a storage space. Only houses like this could afford ridiculous rooms like these.   
  
"What are you up to, Jamie?" Rochester had materialised behind him. James turned to face the other man.

"Whatever do you mean?"

He had not realised how close Rochester had been to him. As he turned he found himself almost within Rochester's arms. Rochester stroked James cheek gently. A not-so-subtle suggestion. In response James raised his eyebrows as if naive to Rochester's intentions. This made Rochester smile.

"What game are we playing?" He ran his fingers over James' mouth, gently tracing the outline of his red lips. They were the kind of lips that could say anything, any hurtful remark, any vicious lie, and still be appealing. They were, Rochester thought, irresistible. James widened his eyes with affected innocence.   
  
"The games, if you are looking for them, are in the other room. Which is where I should be." He attempted to step past Rochester but found his exit blocked as steady hands gripped James' shoulders, preventing forward motion.   
  
"Now Jamie, darling, don't be so difficult! How can I play if I don't know the rules?" Rochester leant towards him and brushed his lips with his own. "Or at least the intention? It would be fair to be at least told what the aim of this game of yours is." He placed another gentle kiss on James' mouth. "Or the team? See, I just can't read the way you are looking at me, Jamie. Am I an ally, am I the competition, am I the prize?"  
  
This time the kiss was long and invasive and this time James responded. James told himself that he was doing this simply to establish a trust, a loyalty, as a means to an end. He knew, however, that his motives were not as singular. It felt good to feel those arms around him, to have another person express such an obvious attraction towards him. To be desired and wanted and accepted, if only for a moment or two. And it was more than this. It was also an opportunity to create an understanding between Rochester and himself.   
  
James pushed the other man away. "I'm not in the mood, Rochester." It was in many ways a lie, his own body betrayed this fact, but it was an important lie.   
  
Rochester was not concerned. People with egos such as his rarely experience rejection. Their state of mind leaves no room for it. "You still have the rooms at the Athena?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"With that delightful 'man' of yours I presume?"   
  
The reference to Plunkett reminded Macleane that this 'delightful man' was waiting outside and would no doubt be displeased to find James had been so easily sidetracked. The 'delightful' man had been waiting outside with the horses all evening. The 'delightful' man had been waiting outside in the pouring rain all evening. James doubted that Plunkett could understand his sudden love for Lady Rebecca.  
  
James doubted that Plunkett would understand the importance of what had just transpired between Rochester and himself. He doubted that Plunkett would accept that it had been a legitimate use of their time. He also doubted that Plunkett had the good breeding to keep his displeasure to himself. And then compounding his haste was the growing respect for this other man. James did not want Will Plunkett to think badly of him. He wanted his respect, his friendship and his acceptance.   
  
To Rochester's surprise James pushed right past him, not quite in the speed of a run but with the definite essence of a dash. To James' surprise he stopped after a few quick steps and turned to face Rochester again. Moving quickly, James pulled Rochester towards him and in the same swift motion kissed him with a brutality that astonished the both of them before exiting the room in great haste.   
  
Rochester stared after his friend, his expression the very portrait of wonder. "What is it you are up to, Jamie?" he wondered aloud. "And what is my purpose in it?" As he passed through various rooms, inspecting the state of his party, he continued to think of 'Capt.' James Macleane and his sudden and unexpected manifestation. Rochester threw a smile in one direction, a quick nod in another and a 'wonderful to see you, darling' out to no one in particular (and to which at least five guests eagerly attempted to respond).   
  
Something did not equate in this scenario. James had the appearance of wealth and good fortune, but where had he raised the money? Certainly not from gambling, if his skill tonight was anything to go by. Furthermore, if the familiar glaze to his eyes was any indication, his habits were as expensive as ever. As Rochester spotted his *dear* friend Lord Davies without their mutual *dear* friend Lord Albury he filed his thoughts of James to a more convenient place and contemplated many pleasant possibilities for the rest of the evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to all the beta's who helped me out and gave me the courage to finally post this... Lisa, Fern, Emerald & Jade - you know you are the best (and you know that I'll be harassing you with part two!).
> 
> (Dedicated to Lyndal, congratulations on finishing - and within the projected time span too!)


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